The evil that man do (Victorian SPN au)
by basiliskonline
Summary: Dean and Sam Winchester are brothers in early, Victorian era London, they are picking up the family business: saving people, hunting things. The constable investigating the Winchmorehill Dissapearances died, his body was found and time of death put it some three weeks earlier. Of course, he had been working, and coming home to his wife every day for those three weeks...
1. Chapter 1

_The title of this fic is in allusion to the Iron Maiden song of the same name._ _please feel free to message me corrections, anachronisms, grammatical bullshit and feedback. Helpful, critical feedback is encouraged! Its been a long time since I have written and I know I'm gonna make lots of stupid mistakes while i shake the rust off. Thanks 3_

* * *

The rumble of the dark carriage's wheels over cobblestone and the clip clop of the horses hooves broke the still London night on Gadding Street; the dark carriage was an old model, a classic, it was unmarked, painted an unrelenting black and pulled by two strong Clydesdales who were as black as the deepest shadows.

The night was dark, cloud cover blotted out both the moon and stars, and light was cast only by the occasional gas lamp flickering in front of the flats. It was in front of one of these flats that the carriage stopped; the horses gave a soft whiny and pawed the air briefly, dispelling some of their excess energy that surged through them. The two figures stood and stepped to the ground with an expert ease.

One was taller than the other, though neither could be said to be short. The taller one was lean, a less attractive man may have been called gangly, but even beneath his formal coat it was obvious that he was in peak physical condition, and his brown hair was on the shaggy side, his features delicate and his eyes were a soft and caring hazel. Definitely lean, not gangly.

The other was still tall, just not as tall, built more physically imposing; his six-foot height was characterized by a wider set to the shoulders and a stocky build. He was built like a bruiser, with a strong jaw and short cropped hair. Though he, too, was undeniably attractive, with full lips and bright piercing green eyes.

The taller one strode towards the wrought iron fence and brownstone wall that surrounded the terraced flats. He stopped when he realized the other had slowed, standing in a pool of flickering lamp light he toyed with his cufflinks absently.

The shorter one stopped on his way around the carriage. He ran his hand down the neck of each of the jet-black Clydesdales, his other hand gently offering up half an apple each. He whispered gently and reassuringly as he petted them, he smiled. "Be good, babies." He said quietly, "We'll be back soon." He turned and joined his partner in the light, who opened the wrought iron gate with a light whine of metal. The two walked up to the door in unison, with a comfort of long years working together.

The taller one knocked on the door with the heavy, simple brass knocker, and waited. After a few moments, the shorter one reached into his inner jacket pocket for a set of lock picks, when he noticed the movement in the window beside the door, a shifting of the lacy curtain. He pulled his hand out of his jacket holding a leather wallet and showed a somewhat worn brass badge inside. "Ma'am, Scotland Yard, if we could have a moment of your time, please?"

There was a twitch and the taller one also provided his badge for view. "We're sorry to bother you this late." He added. After a moment, they heard the door locks going and the door eased slowly open. The woman that peeked from between the jam and the door looked small, lost, like she hadn't gotten any sleep. She looked defeated. She was shrunk in herself, her shoulders slumped, her eyes darted about the patio before settling on the two men. Her hair was disheveled. Her voice came out a harsh whisper. "Umm. Sorry." She looked at the taller one, "How can I help?" it was barely audible.

The taller one held up his badge again, "Ma'am, I am so sorry to bother you. I am Detective Inspector Mozart. This is my partner, Detective Inspector Bach. We'd just like to ask you some questions about the incident earlier this week." _Incident_. Is that what you call it when your husband has been coming home from work every night for the past three weeks, and then his body is discovered, three weeks dead? To be both devastated at the loss of your husband, and terrified that someone else – something else- had spent this last three weeks in your home, intimate with you, without your knowledge, without even a suspicion; It was no wonder she was a wreck.

She hesitated for a moment, a sharp intake of breath, she willfully force the panic down. "Yes, Detective Inspectors. Yes, of course. Come in. Please." She stepped back to give them room to enter, arms crossed, shoulder slumped, eyes vacant. "I already told the constables everything…" She said.

"We know you already talked to the local constabulatory, Ma'am. And as much as we hate to make you talk about this again so soon, the locals, your husband's coworkers, aren't exactly happy to have us interfering in their investigation. One of their own, you understand?" Bach said. She flinched at the mention of her husband, but nodded.

"Yes, they all took it quite personal," was all she said.

"With all due rights, Ma'am. We just want to ensure high-emotions don't impede the investigation, is all. We want to make sure justice prevails," Mozart said. "May we?" he motioned to the sitting room beside the entrance hall.

Mrs. O'hare seemed taken by surprise, "Oh! Of course. I apologize. Please, would you care  
for some tea?" She said, suddenly remembering etiquette.

Bach opened his mouth, and Mozart barreled over him in an instant, "We would not care to inconvenience you further, Mrs. O'hare." She nodded and shuffled into the room. The sitting room's walls were papered with a cream colored paper, a few small paintings dotted the walls and only half of the small brass oil lamps were lit with small flickering lights. An exotic vase from the far east held dead, crumbling flowers. A small fire was going in the fireplace and Mozart noticed a small leather bound book sat open beside one of the two large plush chairs facing the hearth. A quick glance was not enough for Mozart to read much, but he did notice the scrawl seemed to be that of a masculine hand, and the date put it a week before. They had interrupted her reading through – presumably, if he had to guess – her late husband's journal, and reading through faux-husband's entries, probably trying to find some sort of clue or insight she had missed.

As Mozart got a feel for the room, Bach took the initiative. "When did you say you last saw your husband?" Mozart winced as he scanned the mantle over the fireplace, it was a necessary question, but he felt for her terribly. Set on her mantle was a collection of photographs, of Constance O'hare and her husband, Robert. They looked so happy, you could see true love in those photos. Mozart fought down the flashes of Jessica pinned to the ceiling, burning to death. He focused on Robert O'hare, memorizing his appearance. If something was assuming his face, he wanted to recognize it when he saw it.

"Three nights passed," she said quietly; just as was filed in the reports, along with the estimate time of death having been some three weeks earlier.

"And between that time and three weeks passed, you saw him daily?"

She nodded meekly, "He was my husband, Detective Inspector."

Bach nodded, "You didn't notice any strange or conspicuous behavior?"

She shook her head and repeated like a faint echo, "He was my husband." As if trying to convince herself, to make terms with what had happened.

"And the last time you attended Sabbath?" he asked. She gave him a quizzical look, it was a strange question for a member of the police to ask.

"This last Sunday, Detective Inspector."

"And your husband was in attendance?" She nodded.

He glanced at Mozart, Mozart met his eyes and shifted them down at the journal. He followed the look and saw it. "Did Constable O'hare bring his work home with him?" He asked the widow.

Again that nod, and that defeated voice. "Sometimes."

"Recently?" Bach asked, giving her his most comforting smile. It didn't seem to help.

"The Winchmore Hill disappearances," she explained.

"Is that his journal?" he asked, pointing to the table. Her eyes shifted to it, then down to the floor.

Mozart stepped forward, " You kept it from the others?" his voice was soft, compassionate. It nearly screamed of understanding. She nodded weakly. "You wanted to know. To make sure his name would be untarnished." It had a finality that made it a conclusion, not a question, but she confirmed with a nod. "Have you found anything?" She shook her head and slumped her shoulders even more, if that was possible.

_Time to take the leap._ Mozart thought. "Can we borrow it?" She looked up, fear in her eyes. Worry. Heartbreak.

Bach took a half step forward and made a soothing gesture with his hand, "Mrs. O'hare. We get it, we do. I promise. And my partner here is quick as can be with a quill, we'll copy it over, read it through and get it back to you." She looked at him, still obviously concerned.

Bach sat next to her, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick, cracked leather journal. "I recently lost my father, Mrs. O'hare. This is all I have left of him. In this journal here." He looked away for a moment, paused. She looked at him curiously, she found a connection with him now. Both victims of recent tragedy, both keeping the journals of their lost loved ones as a keepsake. Mozart turned back to the mantle, trying to give Bach his privacy.

"Trust me, when I say, we will make sure you get that journal back," he said at last, turning back to her. His eyes were misty and slightly ringed in red but otherwise he was composed again. He found her looking straight into his green eyes.

She nodded, " You can take the journal," she said at last. A change had rolled over her in the past few minutes; she seemed stronger, like she took comfort knowing she wasn't alone.

Mozart had a thought, "Mrs. O'hare, I apologize. Could I trouble you for that tea, after all?"

The two of them passed through the wrought iron gate in front of her home, heading back towards the carriage. Dean Winchester shed the persona of Detective Inspector Bach as simply as changing clothes as he passed through the gate and turned to his brother. "What do you think, Sammy?"

The tall brother, Sam Winchester – not Detective Inspector Mozart – shook his head, "I don't have any clue yet. Not a demon, obviously. Doppelganger? Maybe. That tableware was real silver, but even if it was a 'ganger, he'd have had to hurt himself on it for us to know. We can look over this journal, but I'm not sure how much it will help. We may have to explore down where they found the body." Sam said, hoping Dean was listening. They'd made it to the carriage and Dean had already begun to stroke Baby's muzzle and scratch behind Imp's ears while whispering sweet words of encouragement to them. "Hey, Dean, I deplore to wreck the moment here, but are you listening?"

Dean looked up, "Yes, Sammy. We have to crawl around in the dank catacombs beneath London _again_. I heard you." He ran a final hand down Imp's neck, and then continued to his side of the carriage and hopped up. "You coming?" He settled into the seat.

Sam sighed and hopped up. He'd barely got himself seated when the carriage lurched forward with a hearty "Hyeah!" from Dean. He glared at Dean who had that cocky smile of his plastered across his face, but looked anywhere but at his brother. Eventually, Sam tired of the fruitless glaring, and cracked open Robert's journal and began to skim it by flickering lantern light.

The brother's carriage rattled into the back of the Golden Goblet, a coach house that anything but lived up to such a glamorous name. Run of the mill for the Winchester brothers, they stayed in the cheapest coach houses they could find, generally nights ran little more than a shilling between the two of them, and they shared their space with pallets of straw, and few amenities, generally the rats and bugs in their rooms had comfier accommodations than they did.

As the carriage drew to a halt, Dean began his nightly ritual of caring for Imp and Baby, freeing them from the carriage and walking them to the stables. A young stableboy came out to take the horses, but Dean slapped a loose assortment of pence into his hand and kicked a pile of molding hay beside him. "Get me some good hay, this crap ain't good enough, and some grain, too. Go." He said. The stableboy looked at him, at the coin in his dirty hand and scampered off in a hurry. Dean found the cleanest stall he could, it wasn't clean enough. He sighed, ran his hand down Imp's muzzle and then he pulled his long fancy coat off and hung it over Imp's back. "Stay." He whispered gently, and grabbed the pitchfork and stepped into the stall.

As Dean saw to the horses, Sam slipped the journal into his inside coat pocket and gathered the canvas travel bags they used. He eyed them each to ensure that no bit of weaponry was obvious or revealed by the shape or set of the bags, and then pushed his way through the squeaky back door of the inn. He kicked off what dirt and mud he could in the entry before stepping full into the common room. He was assaulted by the smells of tobacco, the sound of a mob carousing, and faintly the tumbling of dice on wooden tables. He stayed along the back wall, and headed for the stairs, making his way through the noise and up towards the small room he shared with Dean.

Once in the room, Sam dropped the bags to the floor beside the door with a loud whump and pulled the journal out to lay it on a small wobbly table opposite the bags. He pulled his coat off and hung it on the hook above the bags, and lastly lit the dinged and dented lantern to shed some dim light on the room. He dug through his bag, pulling out his own journal, inkwell and quills and then folded himself into a small and uncomfortable chair; he found his place in the Robert's journal, stopping before writing in his own in neat but simple scrawl.

_Who is Michael?_

The Journal often mentioned a friend named Michael; he wasn't a member of the constabulary, as far as Sam could tell he acted as Robert's partner entirely in an unofficial capacity. Robert often spoke of Michael helping to solve his cases due to his 'natural insight.'

_What was this insight?_

Michael's insights had seemed to possess a near supernatural quality; they helped Robert close, literally, case after case. The only case that had eluded them was the Winchmorehill Disappearances.

The door opened and Dean came in. Sam smelled him before he saw him, he glanced up. "Seriously, Dean? Again? You know coach houses have people to do that work for you, right?" Sam said with a smirk.

Dean sighed and barged past him, already stripping off the clothes, "Shut up, Sammy. I don't trust anyone with my babies." He stepped behind the faux-oriental screen in the corner, "and I'd already sent the stableboy running before I realized he hadn't mucked out the stalls appropriately." He finished somewhat sheepishly. Sam enjoyed a long laugh at Dean's expense, while his brother grumbled behind the screen as he washed himself as quickly and efficiently as he could be with a towel and water from his canteen. Once he regained his composure, Sam began reading out loud.

"A lack of victim's corpses made it impossible for Michael to glean any insights." Dean's head popped up from behind the screen, his short hair wet and tousled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

Sam shook his head, "Maybe… psychic?"

"Like you?" Dean asked reaching out for his change of clothes.

"Maybe. Yellow Eyes did say that there were 'other children like me,' maybe this Michael possesses some sort of psychometry."

"Psycho-whatsis?" Dean asked pulling his trousers on and stepping out from behind the screen.

"Psychometry. A psychic ability to touch an object and get information from it, it's been documented in several eastern mystics."

"Awesome."

Sam rolled his eyes, "Yes. So do we track down this Michael or check the catacombs first?"

"Crawling around in dank dark tunnels beneath London with God knows what lurking down there?" He snorted, "Michael first. But before that, we head downstairs and get a beer, then a good night's rest."

Sam waved him away, "You kill your liver, I have to look through this journal. If we are going to talk to Constance again tomorrow I want to be able to give Robert's journal back to her."

Dean shrugged as he grabbed his coat, "Suit yourself, Sammy. Killjoy." Sam shook his head and kept reading as the door closed.

Dean made his way through the common room. He eyed several card games going on, a couple of dice and some wonderfully voluptuous serving maids sauntering through the bar. That was a pleasant surprise as the places they usually stayed tended towards the more homely and older serving maids, ones who hadn't made it out of the life a few years too late. Dean reached into his pocket and produced a coin from his thinning finances. He put it on the table and pointed to a casket of dark. The bartender nodded and filled a dented pewter mug with a foaming dark ale. Dean tipped it to him and kept an eye on the games, two of the card games weren't using the right cards but one was using a set he recognized, one he owned. _Perfect_. He thought, knowing they needed some extra chink in his pocket. He drained his mug.

"Gentlemen!" he exclaimed, coming up to the table, stumbling abit on purpose. That ale wasn't enough to get him drunk, but to these fellows he must have looked like a run of the mill lushington. "Can I set in on the game?" he asked with a slight slur to his voice. "I got coin!" he said, reaching into his pocket and dumping some on the table. "What'dya say?"

A look travelled around the table between the players that were already here. After a brief moment one of them beamed a cold reptilian smile, "Please, join us." He motioned to the seat Dean was standing in front of.

"With pleasure," Dean slurred out and dropped into the seat. Every player around him did little to conceal their smiles of delight.

An hour later those smiles were glares, grumbles and dagger stares. Dean still playing the lushington continued to slur his words as he happily sorted the large pot in front of him. He planned to win one more hand and then head up for the night. A lovely barmaid wandered by the table with a pitcher of something, and Dean thought, _then again, maybe I won't end up back in the room tonight_. His smile doubled in size. He picked up the hand in front of him. It was utter crap. That didn't sour his mood, he didn't care. He thought of that barmaid's beautiful dark locks while he pushed a somewhat large sum into the middle of the table. The grumbling intensified and one of them folded instantly. The other three pushed in.

He smiled, he was quick with his hands, and tonight no one had been the wiser, he was in the process of swapping out the crap card he was dealt with one palmed up his sleeve when a vice-like grip closed around his forearm, and with a shake, several cards fell to the floor. Several extra cards. "Got you, Magsman." Hissed a low voice that stank of liquor.

Dean smiled, "I suppose you wou-" his excuse was cut off as he was cuffed across the mouth with a backhand. Almost simultaneously everyone at the table he was at and the one next to it stood and ushered him out the back door. He let them usher him, he didn't want to make too big of a scene where they were staying. It wasn't good for the cover.

Dean was slammed back against the wooden side of the servant's entrance. "Just give us all the money you got on ya." One growled as he held Dean against the wall, "And we'll let you walk and go find somewhere else to shum."

Dean gave him that patented-Dean-Winchester-smug-smile, "And what was option number two?"

"We'll do you down, proper. You daft boy? There are eight of us here. Can't you count?"  
The smug smile never wavered. "Right you are! So go get a few more and we'll call it an even match!" Dean was already in motion, dropping to the ground. He heard the tough's knuckles breaking on the wall above him. He shoved out against the guy's midsection, sending the bellowing guy stumbling backwards.

He was rising when the next punch came. Dean swatted the punch away from him, letting this goon's own momentum throw him off balance, and then folded his arm in and drove an elbow into his attacker's throat. He ignored him as he clawed at his throat and gurgled and focused on the six remaining guys.

Dean Winchester had been trained from an early age to fight. He was raised on the road by his father, who had been an ex-soldier who spent his later days hunting and fighting monsters. It wasn't ideal for a hunter to have to get up close and personal with a kill, but it wasn't uncommon. John Winchester had honed his military skills going hand to hand with wendigos, vampires, demons and half a dozen other things straight out of nightmares; things fourscore stronger than a normal human, faster, more brutal. He trained his sons from a young age to survive, to fight; to be the next generation of hunters: Saving people, hunting things, the family business.

Dean Winchester was a match for any professionally trained soldier, he could go ten for ten with any boxer champ, he could stand toe-to-toe with the most elite soldier. A couple of street toughs was nothing, most people by-and-large don't really know how to fight. But _eight_ people, and even the best can get overwhelmed. Dean gave more than anyone expected, and every one of those eight men felt the sting of his blows, cradling injuries that would be with them for some time. But they had him, four of them held him tight, while the other four took turns working him over.

Sam heard a commotion outside his window, but that wasn't uncommon for this area of London at night, a drunk bellowing wasn't much. But it didn't take him long for the sounds of a fight to draw him from his research to the window of his room. Glancing down he saw eight guys arrayed on a single poor fool. Sam sighed, it wasn't exactly his job, but he wasn't just about to let some poor sod get a beating when he could stop it. He turned to head downstairs when he noticed the victim.

"Bloody hell," Sam swore. He glanced down and a good thirteen span below him was the roof of the service entrance, and a good ten span below that were the cobblestones of the street. He pulled himself through the window and dropped towards the roof of the service entrance. The wooden shingles of the service entrance were slick. It hadn't rained recently, but London wasn't ever really _not-wet_ and he had been halfway expecting that, so he was prepared. He managed to maintain his balance as he slipped quickly towards the edge.  
One of his assailants had reeled back to deliver another particularly nasty punch, when Sam slipped off the roof above and came down hard, driving a heel into the man's nose in a spray of blood. He went reeling back and fell to the cobblestones with a roar, and Sam hit the cobblestones harder than he'd have liked, in a half crouch. Pain shot up his left arm as he pushed himself to standing. Startled, the gang had let Dean go, and the two brothers took the advantage of the momentary surprise. The fight went much better two on eight than it had one on eight, but it didn't last long before lantern light burst into the alleyway.

"'ats goin' on here?" Demanded an angry, authoritive voice.

Sam was quick to react. He turned and dipped his hand into his pocket, coming out with his badge. "Detective Inspector Mozart, Scotland Yard. These men beset upon my partner with an intent to rob him."

Dean smiled smugly as his attacker's eyes went wide, they glanced at him and his brother and then at the lights. There had been a lot of tension lately, the constabulary had an ongoing investigation, one of their own had been murdered. Now was not a good time to be caught attacking the law. "That so?" came the voice. There was a level of finality in it, and if possible Dean thought their eyes got even wider. "Boys, how about we show 'em what it means to try to roll one of our own?" Behind that bright lantern light was at least three constables, now out for blood.

Dean stepped quickly between them, wincing a little bit at his ribs and wiping some blood from the corner of his mouth. "Now, now, Constable. These boys got a little caught up in a card game, didn't like that they were losing. I'm sure these fine upstanding gents know-now the error of their ways and would be more than willing to make a small donation to the local constabulary to make amends."

"Oh would they?" There was amusement in the constable's voice now.

The assailants nodded furiously and tripped over their own words in agreement.

Dean laughed to himself all the way up the stairs while he counted their new earnings, despite the fact that when he laughed his… well his everything hurt. "Would have preferred a different method, but can't argue with results, Sammy. This was quite a profit, even with splitting it with those constables."

Sam cradled his arm. "Yeah," he said as he kicked open the door, "You're a mess and I think I may have broken my arm; we are definitely in prime creature fighting form, but at least we got some coin."

Dean sighed, "Calm down, Sammy. Let me take a look at that arm, we'll get it splinted."

Sam shook his head, "Dean you are way more hurt than I am. We'll see to my arm after we make sure you are okay." Sam had that stubborn set to his jaw.

"Looking after you, Sammy. That's the way it is. The sooner you stop arguing about this, the sooner we both get the help we need."


	2. Chapter 2

Sam woke to a bone deep ache in his arm and the grey light of the morning overcast filtering through the room's window. He sighed as he inspected his arm the best he could, it had been splinted and wrapped the night before which was the most they could do. He unfortunately couldn't take anything for the pain. Anything to dull the pain would, similarly, dull his senses and that's not something he could afford in the middle of a hunt when his and Dean's life could depend on it. He would just have to ignore the pain and work through it the best he could. He sat up and got dressed, careful of his arm, and headed downstairs.

The common room was quieter in the morning, just a few of the people that were staying here; most sat by themselves for some breakfast and beer before heading off wherever they needed to go. Gone was the smoke filling the air, gone was the questionable music and gambling, gone was the life. It was quiet and sedate. He dropped down at the rough wooden bar and after a moment the bartender served up a barely warm meat pie and hardly cold beer. Sam nodded his thanks and left some coins on the counter. "Seen my partner?" he asked as he ate the somewhat questionable meat pie - it wasn't the worst thing Sam had ever eaten.

"Came down about an hour ago, ate, and headed out to tend his horses," rumbled the bartender, swiping the coins. "He looked..." he paced down the length of the bar away from Sam without completing his statement but gave a shrug and wince. Sam finished his food and stood, straightened his coat and headed out to the stables.

Sam stepped out into the alley that led to the stables just as Dean was leading Imp and Baby out to the carriage. They were both freshly brushed and looked energetic and ready for the day. Sam could say a lot about horses, having seen his fair share, but he had never known a horse to have as much resilience and endless energy as those two.

"Bloody Hell, Dean! You look like something a Hellhound dragged in," Sam sputtered, seeing his brother. The wounds from the previous night's altercation had not aged well.

Dean shrugged and began hitching the two to the carriage. "You should see the other guys," he said with a smile. His lip started bleeding where his smile broke a split that had barely healed over in the night. He licked at the blood and frowned.

"I did see the other guys, Dean. I was there. Eight guys. We are here on a hunt, Dean. And you almost get yourself killed by eight toughs while going bug hunting?"

Dean didn't look at him. "We could use some more push, and I saw an opportunity. I wasn't expecting half the blasted common room to take an interest," he muttered.

"There's a reason we don't go broading solo. It's just the two of us, Dean. You and I against the world; against more than the world, against Hell and whatever else comes in. You got to be more careful, man."

"I heard you, Sam. Okay. I cocked up. I get it. You aren't our father!" Dean practically yelled, angrily walking around the carriage, looking it over.

"Yeah. I'm not, Dean. Pop is dead."

Dean came around the carriage like a steam train, furnace on full boil, his bruised face red. "You think I don't know that, Sammy?" he yelled, his fists balled up, his body language screamed imminent violence.

Sam put his hands up to try to calm Dean, "I don't know, Dean do you? You don't talk about it, you don't act like you know. You pretend everything is fine. It isn't."

Dean took one step forward, "Da died to save me. He brought me back. Sent his ass straight on a one way ticket to Hell for me, Sammy," he whispered. "You think I don't know he's dead? You think every minute of every bloody day I don't know that if it wasn't for me, he'd be alive? Sammy, I am _painfully_ aware of all of that, but what, vengeance? Sounds great! You know where to find the demon? Any leads? Have you been able to decipher any of Da's research? Because I haven't! And let's say we do find it, you have another way to kill it? Because, oh! The Colt is missing! I can't do anything about the bloody demon right now, Sam. What I can do is focus on the hunt, on killing this thing and the next one, and every evil son of a bitch that rears its head."

Dean turned, stalking back towards the carriage angrily.

"Dean," Sam whispered, "I'm sorry." He hadn't considered how the guilt would eat him up, how he'd blame himself. "But, you can't keep blaming yourself. **He** made the choices he made, Dean. Not you. Getting yourself killed isn't going to make his sacrifice worth anymore." Dean stopped. "I can't do this without you, man."

Dean clenched his fist, unclenched it, his head hung. He looked back. "I'm with you, Sammy, all the way. No dying. Promise."

Sam eyed him for a moment, and then nodded. Silently they both pulled themselves into the carriage.

Dean and Sam had ridden in silence, Imp and Baby pulling them smoothly along when Sam slapped Dean on the arm and pointed. "Something happened at the mortuary." He warned.

Dean slowed the carriage as he looked over. "Suppose a coincidence is unlikely?" he asked with a wry smile.

"When have we ever been handed an honest coincidence, Dean?"

"First time for anything," he suggested dryly. A small gathering of constables had formed outside of the mortuary. A horde of gongoozlers had come to gawk at whatever was happening, but the lawmen were keeping everyone back. Dean lead the horses off the road to someplace safe to stop. "Shall we check it out, Detective Inspector?"

Sam smiled, "Let's, Detective Inspector."

The two stepped out of the carriage in unison and turned towards the mortuary, walking up in stride. Two constables stepped up to bar them and Sam flashed his badge. "Scotland Yard," he said, without any intent to slow or stop. They didn't stop him. Dean shared a nod with one of the officers, presumably one of the constables that shared his donation last night. "Sergeant," Sam greeted with a nod.

Sergeant Mulvanny looked over from the doorway. "Oh, Detective Inspectors, was it? Well how can I help you two fancy lads?" the Sergeant asked with barely concealed contempt. When Dean and Sam started looking into this case, Mulvanny made it quite clear he didn't like outsiders looking into a crime against 'one of their own.'

"Saw the commotion, Sergeant, thought we could be of help," Sam said.

He stared at them and after a moment he sighed. "We had a break in; knapped Constable O'Hare's hand."

Dean sputtered, "What?"

Mulvanny nodded, "You heard me. Last night, had someone break in on the fly and take O'Hare's right hand. From what we can tell, didn't touch anything else, just took the hand and left."

Sam nodded towards the door, "You mind if we take a look?"

"Be my guest. I live to serve the powers that be over in Scotland Yard," he said with gross overenthusiasm as he stepped back, bowing low.

Sam sighed and stepped passed the Sergeant. He was about to begin inspecting the lock when he saw he didn't need to. The door had been forced and the jamb was shattered around the lock. He mentally noted it and slipped inside. Dean and Mulvanny came in behind him, the Sergeant stayed back to keep an eye on the two of them.

They spent some time looking over the scene. Some guarded looks and quick signals kept them on the same page, but neither of them found anything until they got to the autopsy room.

The autopsy room had a thick pungent stench of decay, thinly veiled by the caustic smell of chemicals, it was nearly overpowering. Sam and Dean had seen some pretty God awful things, smelled some things worse, too. But whoever had to work in these conditions on a consistent basis, Dean felt, deserved an honour.

Sam looked back at Mulvanny, "Where was the body?" The Sergeant indicated a coffin to the side of the room. Sam looked it over. Lead lined to contain the stench and harmful fumes, well decorated; above Michael O'Hare's means, by far, but another example of the local constabulary taking care of their own.

He and Dean crossed the room to the coffin while Mulvanny stayed at the door, probably trying to mitigate his exposure to the horrid atmosphere of the room. Sam nodded to Dean and Dean unlatched the coffin and shifted the top open.

Inside the coffin was so revolting, Sam almost emptied his stomach right there, and Dean wasn't much better. But they maintained composure long enough to scan the coffin, looking passed the fluids, viscera and decay. With a cough, Sam nodded, "Okay." That was all Dean needed, he slammed the coffin shut and the two left the room with a somewhat green complexion.

The three made their way outside, where Mulvanny watched them quietly while they recovered and enjoyed the fresh air. He just watched them with that smug smile and malicious gleam in his eye. "Well?" he asked.

Sam shook his head, though it grated on him to have to do so. "You're right, there was nothing to go on," he said as he pushed away from the wall he was leaning against and straightened his coat.

His grin deepened. "It is a pleasure to have you here to validate our hard work," he said wryly.

Sam saw the tightening in Dean's body. He understood. If he could, he'd leave Mulvanny eating his own teeth, he would in the blink of an eye, but that just couldn't happen. He stepped quickly between the two, "Well it's time we continue on our way. Thank you for humoring us, Sergeant."

"Always a pleasure, Detective Inspectors. Please come back soon to supervise us, otherwise nothing will ever get done," he quipped as he turned his back on them to talk to his people, leaving them to walk back to their coach on their own.

Dean grumbled under his breath all the way back to the carriage. They pulled themselves in and started back towards the O'Hare home. "Well?" he prompted Sam.

"Whatever did that possessed strength, Dean. The door jamb was shattered but the door itself didn't have any marks that would indicate a ram or it being kicked in. My guess was it shoved in. And then whatever took the hand had enough strength to sever the bone clean, while also putting the knife through a quarter inch of lead and the wood of the coffin."

"Still sounds like a 'ganger to me," Dean said.

Sam nodded. A doppelganger could assume the form of another person by shedding its outer skin. They possess supernatural speed, strength and endurance; they are tough to kill sons-of-bitches, unless you have a silver weapon. Silver is anathema to them. "It definitely fits the bill, though…"

Dean looked over, "Though?"

"Well, when that 'ganger took your form in Derchester, he needed you alive to access your memories, right?"

Dean shuddered, "Yah, and if this poor toff was killed three weeks ago… how did he act like Robert, flawlessly?"

Sam nodded.

"Okay, we be cautious. Seems like a 'ganger, so we bring silver, but we don't rule out the possibility that it's some other creature so we don't end up in lavender."

"Yeah, that sounds good." Sam slid the canvas bag out from under the seat and began shifting through it for the silver bullets.

"Awesome."

They knocked on the door and waited a few heartbeats before curtain fluttered and the door opened. Constance O'Hare looked much better than the day before. Her dark auburn hair had been styled and no longer hung limply and her eyes were brighter, stronger. She looked like she had found hope again. Sam nodded politely to her and held out the journal she had lent them. But her face twisted into a mask of dismay.

"Detective Inspector!" she exclaimed, brushing by Sam to get a better look at Dean's bruised face, "what happened?"

Dean shifted his footing, "Ahhh… Nothing, Ma'am. It was nothing. It's all right. Really." It was hard to tell under all the bruising but Sam could swear Dean was blushing.

Constance turned, and gave Sam a wan smile, "Thank you, Detective Inspector." She took her husband's journal. "But you," she jabbed a finger at Dean, "you need to be seen to, properly." She stepped back into her home and stepped aside so they could get passed, "Straight on back to the kitchen, quick now." She pointed.

Sam did his best to stifle the laughter welling inside of him, mainly because Dean looked so disconcerted, and stepped inside. "Ma'am, thank you, truly."

Dean apparently floundered for just a few moments too long and Sam heard behind him, "Tut tut! Detective Inspector, you're letting the flies into my home!"

Chuckling, Sam took a stool by the counter and didn't have to wait long before Constance came into the room with Dean following abashedly. She motioned for him to sit and he did as she opened a cabinet and came out with a small leather satchel. She opened it and Sam was surprised to see a fairly extensive collection of medical supplies. She deftly went to work on Dean, dabbing and swabbing. Dean winced in appropriate places, mostly where the iodine was involved.

"Thank you for bringing the journal back to me," she said, without looking over while tending to Dean. "I thought you would, but it's good to be proven right about a feeling." Then she ordered Dean, "Keep still!"

Sam laughed quietly, "It was our pleasure, it may have helped us, though we have some questions about it."

Constance stayed focused on Dean. "Stay a moment," she commanded and dipped her hands into her medical bag. Dean stayed frozen in place, staring straight ahead and probably grateful he didn't have to make eye contact with Sam right now.

"There we are." She had pulled out a suture needle and silk thread. "You want to know about Michael?" she guessed as she leaned in and swabbed the split on Dean's brow.

Sam nodded before he could stop himself but realized she couldn't see him, "Yes. He seems like he could have some important information."

She nodded and chewed her lip in concentration as she sutured Dean's brow. Dean grit his teeth, but made no sound; it wasn't the first time he'd been sewn up.

Constance tied off and snipped the thread, "There. Right as rain, Detective Inspector."

"Thanks, Ma'am," Was all Dean managed to say. Sam could still see him twisting on his stool in embarrassment.

"It was nothing, Robert used to need some tending too from time to time; came with the job, you know? And my Father was a doctor, I'd help him from time to time; picked up a few things." She smiled.

She put the supplies away and gave another almost-genuine smile, "I'm afraid I can't offer much about Michael. I only met him once; Robert had him over for dinner one night. A polite and well-mannered man, but besides that he didn't speak of him. I didn't know how much he affected Robert's work until I read his journal. What do you think he meant by Michael's insights?"

Sam shook his head, "we honestly don't know, Ma'am. It is one of the things we'd have hoped to ask him."

"I'm sorry I can't be of more help to you gentlemen. Some tea?"

Sam shook his head, "I appreciate the offer, Mrs. O'Hare, but we should be going." He stood, Dean followed suit standing quickly. "Can I ask, one thing, though, Ma'am?" She looked at him expectantly. "You seem much more… hopeful today. Might I enquire?"

She hesitated for a moment. "You two," she said, at last. "I don't want you to misunderstand, losing Robert is… unthinkable. It is utterly awful, and I want nothing more than to curl up into a ball and disappear," she said frankly. "But he worked a dangerous job. I've been preparing for this for some time. What was utterly disarming was the unexplained; was that _thing._"

Dean looked at Sam with confusion and saw the same look shared on his brother's face. "How have we…?" Dean asked slowly, not finishing the sentence, his hand rolled a bit to elaborate.

"My husband was a constable. I know an officer of the law. I know what sort of questions they ask. Also I am clever as all get-out. You lads aren't anymore Detective Inspectors than I am the Great Lady, Queen Victoria, may she reign forever."

Sam and Dean just stared at her, bewilderment plain on their faces.

"The others, they try to pretend that whole _other Robert_ doesn't exist, but you take that seriously. Whether he attended Church on the Sabbath? Obviously an evil spirit couldn't have attended the service, yes?" She waited, "Well?"

Dean kicked Sam, who kicked him back, while she watched with a wry smile on her face. "Ma'am," Sam sighed, he was planning a lie but if she began investigating into their identities it could really complicate their hunt here. "I know this is queer," he said, "but queer is somewhat what we do."

She waited, her lips pursed, her eyes flashing with something mischievous.

Dean stepped forward, "Mrs. O'Hare, we will figure out what happened to your husband, and we will find out what it is that impersonated him. And I promise you whatever it is will never trouble another living soul ever again. I **swear** it."

After a moment, she nodded. "I believe you, I felt it yesterday. You lads gave me hope that I will finally feel safe again, that I don't have to live in fear. Today just proved to me how far you can be trusted. Thank you."

Sam sighed a breath of relief and Dean nodded at her. They turned to go and she called after them. "One more thing, if it's relevant." They stopped. "The… Whatever it was that impersonated my Robert. He never… he didn't…he made excuses, he never laid with me as my husband," she said.

Dean coughed uncomfortably and Sam nodded, "Thank you, Mrs. O'Hare."

They made their way out of the house, and walked towards the coach. "So," Dean said, "what sort of ugly can't get it up, any lore for that?"

"I can't think of anything on the fly; impersonation and impotence?" He shook his head. "I'll add it to the list, but I don't think it's the type of details that should stop our investigation into the catacombs."

Dean groaned.

"Damnation, Sammy," Dean grumbled as he picked his way through the catacomb's debris-strewn path, the soft ring of lantern light bobbing. "I thought you had a map and it was _'not too far.'_ We've been down here for over an hour!" he exclaimed, and then kicked at a large rat that had skittered to near to him, "Only God knows what's in this rat hole."

Sam sighed, not for the first time. "I know, Dean. How often can I apologize? I don't know what happened, either the map is off or I made a wrong turn somewhere, okay. I'm sorry." He stopped and looked at some markings on the wall, the first ones they'd seen in close to a quarter hour. Sam shined his directed lantern over the markings and then held up his map.

Dean squeezed in. "That's it there, isn't it?" he asked pointing to a spot on the map.

Sam nodded and looked back and forth down the corridor. "I think it's this way, then," he said pointing down the way they had come from. "And a… left at the next turn." He held the map up until Dean nodded his agreement, and then they both started back.

Sam hated this as much as Dean, these tunnels were short, even Dean had to worry about scraping his head occasionally. Sam spent his whole time down here in an uncomfortable stoop, except for the occasional larger chamber that opened up, allowing him room to stretch for a moment. His neck ached, his legs ached, and his broken arm seemed to feel left-out so it ached too, just on principle.

They took the first left and found the next symbol. These catacombs weren't just used by the supernaturally malicious; the commonplace criminal found a great many uses for the tunnels and catacombs beneath London. Sam managed to get his hands on a map used by one of these bludgers; lacking any landmarks, the Family had a set of glyphs and markings they used to navigate the tunnels.

"We're coming up on it," Sam whispered to Dean. He shuttered his lantern, closing off the shaft of light entirely. They stood in Dean's flickering halo, listening and looking into the darkness. As their eyes adjusted, Sam whispered, "You see that?"

Dean nodded, "Light, up ahead." He muted his own lantern, and the two of them crept quietly towards the room that the light was emanating from.

Sam peaked around and saw a shadowy form knelt in the far corner of the room; this was the room where Robert's body was found. It was strewn with odds and ends, a couple of bare-thread pillows with some stuffing working out of them, a few chipped and dented, dirty cups. Even a mostly intact somewhat water damaged painting sat in the corner, a beautiful landscape and night's sky.

He reached over and tapped Dean on the shoulder once. Dean knew that meant _one target._ Dean slipped ahead and peaked himself. In the flickering candle-light the two brothers looked at each other and nodded. Dean had his revolver out already, but Sam quietly drew his, and the two stepped into the entryway.

"Show us your face, you skinwalking toe-rag." Dean hollered in his most intimidating manner, his revolver held ready. Sam came in a second behind him.

The hunched over form stood, whipping around incredibly fast. The face that stared at them in bewilderment was that of Constable Robert O'Hare.


	3. Chapter 3

Three shots like thunder echoed through the dark tunnels beneath London. An evil creature wearing the face of a good man twitched and jerked three times before he turned to run, seemingly unphased.

Dean cursed loudly. "Not a 'ganger," he noted.

Sam cursed his broken arm as he had to jam his revolver back into his holster before reaching for his sawed-off. Meanwhile, Dean had already taken another step into the room and raised his sawed-off in his left hand. A fourth roar of thunder echoed through the tunnel and the rock salt peppered the stone wall where the creature had just been.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean shouted, and began sprinting down the tunnel after the thing, Sam just a moment behind him; it was only a moment before they were plunged into utter darkness.

Sam managed to get his lantern unshuttered as they ran, and only by the grace of God did he or Dean not trip or stumble over the debris strewn corridor and break their fool necks while sprinting down the pitch dark passage. Sam had trouble stabilizing the lantern as they charged and the focused beam of light bobbed and weaved, making the run discombobulating. He heard Dean's shotgun roar again, saw a flash of the creature turning a corner as the lantern swung the beam across its path.

Dean and Sam were pushing themselves to their limit, their breaths came in ragged gasps. Dean had torn his coat on a jagged outcropping and was letting loose a hail of pellets from his shotgun anytime he saw an opening. The creature seemed unfettered by the shotgun blasts, though in this light it wasn't certain whether Dean's shots were finding their mark.

They pushed on; muscles aching, breathing hard, they kept on the thing's tail, if just barely.

Sam had the creature pinned mostly in the lantern light when he saw it leap; almost scraping it's back across the low ceiling of the tunnel and folding down into a roll when it landed, it came up and looked back at them.

"DEAN!" Sam hollered.

Sam saw Dean framed in the light. When the creature had jumped, Dean had been looking down reloading his shotgun. He looked up as he raised his shotgun, he saw it standing in front of him, a perfect unmoving target. Sam could imagine the smug look on his brother's face. He reached forward to grab his brother by the collar of his coat. "STOP!" he warned.

Dean reacted to Sam's voice, but just a second too late. As the shotgun went up, Sam saw his brother vanish from view. A blast of shotgun roared into the ceiling, sending loose debris down. An ominous groan sounded from the architecture, echoing through the derelict tunnels.

Sam stared right into the eyes of the creature for a moment, and saw something that seemed like regret, and then it turned and ran down the tunnel.

Sam sighed, and shuffled carefully up to the edge and glanced down. "Dean," he called, "Dean, are you okay?"

"Yes, Sammy," he responded loudly, and then groaned under his breath, "I'm good." He splashed quietly through the waist high water that he had landed in. He didn't want to think about what was infused in that water. He did his best not to breathe through his nose and definitely did not let any of that water near his mouth. "I'm in deep shit, Sammy," he said with an unamused smile.

"Do you have your lantern?" Sam called down.

"Lost it," he complained, "and the shotgun."

"Right. You hold tight and don't go anywhere," Sam instructed. "I'm going to go back to that thing's paddingken and see if there's a coil anywhere."

"Okay, Sammy. Just don't be long." Dean drew his revolver and waded over till his back was against the nearby wall of the sewer, feeling the rough brick against his back.

Sam hurried into the still lit room and cast a glance around the room, not seeing rope anywhere. He walked over to the corner where the thing was originally hunched when they entered. He found a somewhat oversized journal. Sam glanced over the page that it was open too and realized that it was a information on the Winchmore Hill Disappearances. He shivered, _whatever this thing is, it likes to keep trophies of its work. _"That is so creepy," he muttered to himself as he gathered the book up, and began searching the room for a rope.

Sam was returning to where Dean had fallen, he wanted to keep him informed before he made his way back to the carriage to recover a rope they could use to get him out. Dean would probably be trapped in that muck for at least an hour; he was not going to be happy.

"Dean," Sam called as he got closer.

"Sammy. I'm still here. Cold as a well-diggers ass down here, though, so if you can get me out, nows a great bloody time!"

"I'm sorry, Dean. I need to get back to the coach, there was no rope back in its lair."

There was a pause, and Sam could almost _hear_ the profanities and curses. "Okay, Sammy. Just get back soon. Please, by the love of God, get back soon."

"-And the next time you want to go into the catacombs _you _get to sit in the sewer for over a blasted hour!" Dean finished. Along with the rope, Sam had brought a change of clothes for Dean, but he had been ranting the whole way up to the coach and Sam had been unable to get a word in edgewise. But now that he was back in the daytime London air and within sight of his horses, he seemed to finally break his tirade.

"Are you finished?" Sam asked, trying hard to hide the smile, both in his voice and on his face.

"You are bloody loving this, aren't you?" Dean growled.

Sam breathed in deeply and put on his best hurt look, "How could you say that? I'm your _brother_, I would never revel in your misery."

Dean shook his head, "Whatever." It seemed like for the first time he noticed the folder under Sam's arm, "What'd you find?"

"Looks like a scrapbook of the Winchmore Hill Disappearances. I'll know more when I can look through it."

"So the disappearances are our jolly after all," Dean said, matter-of-factly.

Sam sighed, "Yes, Dean. You were right. But that Rakshasa in Hastings was still a big deal. If we hadn't tracked that down it would have gone to ground for another thirty years."

"Oh I'm not denying that, Sammy. I'm just pointing something out. Who was right? Who?" he grinned, "Come on, who was right and who was wrong?"

Sam balled up his coat and threw it into the cab of the coach, "You were right, Dean." He sighed and rolled his eyes, "You were right and I was wrong."

Dean hopped up into the coach with renewed vigor. "And don't you forget it," he said with a smug smile, "and speaking of the Rakshasa and that damned 'ganger in Derchester; allow me just to say, I bloody hate shapeshifters, Sammy."

Sam pulled himself up, "You and me both, Dean. I'm gonna need to dig deep into shapeshifter lore."

"Bobby?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded, "It's a start anyway."

The two brothers made their way back to their coaching inn. Dean paid the stable boy to feed and care for the horses but keep them hitched and ready to go. The brothers stormed up the stairs to their room, trundled inside and locked it fast.

Dean swept an area on the floor clear of anything and began scrawling in chalk; Sam dug through a bag and pulled out wide shallow bronze bowl and several tall white candles. It was a quick and routine ritual and it didn't take long for the setup, a few quick words in latin and a circular lighting of candles; then a moment of waiting.

After a few moments, Bobby Singer's face rippled into existence inside the water of the bowl. He had a broad face, tough and strong, like a bulldog with intelligent and piercing blue eyes. An old worn boilerman cap was pulled over his short brown hair, a thick but short beard framed his face and a moustache bristled on his upper lip. "Oh Hellfire, it's good to see you boys," he exclaimed before the image had even fully formed, his native Scottish tongue slurring his words.

Sam smiled, "Thanks, Bobby. It's good to see you too."

He smiled, "What sort of trouble have you two eejits gotten yourselves into now? You alright, boy?" he asked obviously looking at Dean.

Dean shook his head. "I'm good; this was unrelated," he said with an embarrassed smile, "I'm good, really."

"If you say so, Son." Bobby was a straight forward and sensible sort, he'd worry but if someone wasn't talking, he'd move on. "What you two getch yerselfs into?" he asked.

Sam shook his head, "We're still trying to figure it out: London. Shapeshifter: strong, fast. Silver ain't bane to it." Sam shrugged weakly.

Bobby nodded and chewed his lip for a second. "Well nothing springs ta mind," he said, "but what I can do: I got someone in London parts owes me a bit of a favor, pulled his bawbag out of a fire a year or so back. He's a part of this high muckamuck secret society, they study the occult, but they don't like hunters much. He can help ya, but he won't like it. Keep your traps shut and don't ask no questions about where the information comes from." Bobby paused long enough to give them both a good steely narrowed-eye stare to punctuate his point, "His name is Marcus Wainwright, and ye kin find him at the British Museum Library. Tell him Bobby Singer is calling in his marker."

"Thanks, Bobby," Dean and Sam said in unison, an unsettling occasion that had occurred all too often since they'd been hunting together again. Sam reached in and touched the pool of water causing ripples to run through it and Bobby's face fragmented and faded. The last thing they heard was him telling them to be careful.

Sam stood and could hardly keep the wide grin from his face. "The British Museum Library," he said with reverence that most devout men reserve for their Lord and Savior and most lecherous men reserve for their favorite whore.

"Toff," Dean accused, and knuckled him roughly on the shoulder.

Sam shook his head, "Whatever you say, Dean. The British Museum Library is the largest confluence of knowledge in the modern world. It's like we've rebuilt the Library of Lost Alexandria."

Dean licked his forefinger and thumb and started pinching the candles out, "All I hear is gulls cawing, Sammy. Let's rattle the cobblestones and figure this out."

The room the two brothers stepped into was awe-inspiring, its massive rotunda arched high over their heads as they walked straight passed the desks and tables filling the massive round chamber towards the center check desk; they strode with a purpose, and a few people they passed glanced up, but Dean could see their eyes instantly return to their books or research, the brothers dismissed from their mind once they determined that they weren't colleagues.

The two made their way to the center desk and almost instantly a tall gaunt sharp dressed man appeared before them as if by magic. "Can I help you gentlemen?" he asked with a gentle rumble that wouldn't carry more than a few feet.

Sam was busy staring at the shelf after of leatherbound books that ran along the circular room's walls. Dean was surprised he wasn't goggle-eyed and mouth-agape, he'd never seen Sam look at a woman half as hard as he was eyeing those books.

Dean smiled and leaned in to keep his voice down, "Maybe you can, you see, we are looking for Marcus Wainwright, is he in?"

The tall, gaunt man sniffed, but nodded and held up one finger, pressing on them to wait. He walked away and found a nearby porter; he hooked his arm and pulled him close, whispered to him for a moment and sent him scurrying off. He then returned to the desk and motioned for Sam and Dean to stand aside, Dean had to nudge Sam, but the two stepped aside to wait. Dean watched the porter disappear behind a cleverly concealed door, which looked just like part of the library's ring of books.

Dean saw the same hidden door open and a man exited. He was a dainty toff, sharply dressed, with long dark oiled hair, slicked back from his forehead and then falling around his shoulders in thick ringlets and coils. Dean nudged Sam and whispered, "Head back in the game, Sammy. Here comes Wainwright."

Sam shook his head as if attempting to break free of the wonder the library had captured in him, and nodded solemnly.

"I am Marcus Wainwright, how can I help you gentlemen?" he asked quietly.

Dean gave him that cocky smile of his, "Bobby Singer told us to stop by."

They saw emotion and color drain from Wainwright's face when the mentioned Bobby Singer.

"He told us to tell you he was calling in his marker," Dean finished.

Wainwright gripped the railing beside him so tightly his knuckles turned white. After a moment, the Winchesters watched him take a deep breath, and motion for them to follow him. He led them across the library to one of the bookshelves, which turned out to be one of the false bookshelves as he opened it, and he motioned for them to enter.

Dean entered and his hand slipped under his jacket and caressed the hilt of his pistol beneath. This guy seemed none-too-happy to have them here and they were now being trundled off to an out of the way room; he didn't live this long by being careless.

The room was dark with just a simple flickering candle in the center on a table with four comfy looking chairs surrounding it. As soon as the door had closed behind Wainwright, Sam heard him whisper something under his breath and two lanterns in the room flared to life.

Dean, not slow on the draw or one to take chances, had his revolver out and held steady, the barrel aimed directly between Wainwright's eyes before the lantern fire finished flaring.

Wainwright looked at Dean with not an ounce of fear, and sighed. "_Hunters,"_ he said, coloring it with such contempt as Sam had ever heard. "If you would please put that revolver down, and tell me what you need of me," he said with a steely voice.

Dean's hand wavered as he thought about it, but the only reason the gun fell to his side was because Sam reached over and pushed it down. "We need whatever research you have on shapeshifters," he explained.

Wainwright sneered, "There are multiple classifications of shapeshifter, you Rampsman: Doppelganger, Skinwalker, ghul, rakshasa , Yokai –"

Dean cut him off impatiently, "Yes, we know that." His voice was filled with a contempt that could rival Wainwright's, "We need it all."

He sighed, "Of course you do. Well make yourself comfortable, you'll be in for a long night." He motioned to the chairs and turned and left the room.

Dean let out a series of insulting profanities that encompassed not just Marcus Wainwright but his ancestors and descendants as well, and threw himself bodily into the chair. His revolver clattered onto the table, "I don't trust this guy, Sammy. Not one bit."

Sam nodded, "It's no secret that he's got nothing but disdain for us, but we don't have to trust him, trust Bobby. I'm sure if Bobby thought there was any chance of him doing anything, he'd have warned us."

"Yeah, yeah. You're right."

The next few hours was a blur, Wainwright kept coming in with armloads of books after books. Often he'd have very specific instructions about how they were required to care for, treat or place each book; spoken slowly and methodically, as if Dean and Sam were no more than barely house-broken savages that hardly spoke English.

Wainwright had just dropped off another armload of books and left, when Sam may have found something. "So, get this," he said suddenly.

Dean stopped his research and looked up with a hopeful look on his face.

Sam read, "Ghuls are non-predatory creatures that scavenge from the remains of the dead, often found in cemeteries throughout the world. A ghul's shapeshifting abilities stem from the ability to consume the flesh of a corpse and assume the appearance and memories of that individual…"

Dean nodded, "Could be our cove. How do we kill it?"

Sam sighed, "Dean you aren't listening to me. Ghuls eat the flesh of the dead and assume their form and memory."

He nodded, but Sam could see it still wasn't clicking.

"For instance a murder victim, a ghul could assume their identity and know exactly who killed them…" he trailed off letting Dean deduce from there.

"Michael!" he said suddenly, "You think Michael is the ghul?"

Sam nodded, "It fits with what we read in Robert's journal; his _insights_ and requiring the victim's bodies, the stolen hand." Sam reached forward and flipped to the end of the report portfolio Dean was looking through, "And it explains why this entry is written in Roberts's hand, long after he was dead." He pointed at the date.

"Are you trying to say what I think you are saying, Sammy? That this… creature is a good monster?"

"Why not? It fits. I think we should try to track this thing down and talk to it."

Dean looked like he just ate a whole lemon, "Are you cracked, Sammy? You want to talk to a monster?"

Sam shook his head, "Ghul's don't kill people, Dean. They eat the dead, they don't make them dead. This thing might not be human, but I think it's hunting whatever is taking these people. I think maybe we can work together."

"You want us to work with a ghul?" Dean asked, incredulously.

"I want you to be open to the idea long enough for us to try and talk to it." Sam sighed, "Just trust me on this. Please."

"Fine, Sammy. We'll try it your way. But if we're going into this thing, we're going in ready. How do you kill it?"

Constance opened the door with a smile, "If you gentlemen don't take care, I will come to expect such visits frequently, then when you have rattled your way off into the sunset, my breast will be heavy with my lonely burden." She stepped aside waving them in as she spoke.

Sam gave her a brief chuckle. "Sorry to bother you again, Mrs. O'Hare. We had a few follow up questions; well… we have some information. It may be better if we all sit," he motioned to the sitting room with a questioning look.

Constance nodded, "Of course, I'll prepare some tea." She gave them a look, searched their faces, "I'm going to want something stronger than tea, aren't I?" she asked.

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. She nodded and motioned for them to sit and bustled back into the kitchen.

When she returned with a tray of tea, beside the kettle and the cups stood a tall dark bottle of Brandy. "It was from Michael's stash; 'the Good Stuff' as he'd say," she explained. "I have a sense we could all use it." Dean took his cup with a liberal splash of Brandy. After a stir he sipped it, gave her an apologetic look as he splashed a bit more.

Constance took her's only moderately weaker than Dean's. Sam forwent the brandy entirely, sipping his tea and waiting for Constance to settle in.

After the three of them seemed to be settled, a thick silence descended upon the sitting room; just the flickering of the lamps and clicking of the tea cups on their saucers.

Dean gave Sam a look that said, _well this whole thing is your stupid idea, so you tell her._

Sam set his cup aside, "Mrs. O'hare. I think we have a lead on Michael. I know you said you didn't have much familiarity with him, but we hope if we tell you what we found, it may inspire some thought."

She nodded, "I will do anything I can to help."

"We think we know what drew our interest to this case," Sam started. "There is a creature called a ghul. Ghul's aren't generally dangerous, they are scavengers of the occult world, they consume the flesh of the dead and assume their identity and form…"

Constance picked Robert's journal up from the table beside her chair, she flipped through a few pages and stopped. "'_Without any of the flesh of the victims upon which Michael often procures his insights as to the murderer's identity, we are found with little choice but to continue to collect evidence in the old fashioned way, which sadly may lead to more disappearances before we have the culprit in chains.'_ You think that Michael is this ghul?" she asked, her mouth twisted around the word, "and that he was using this ability to help Robert in finding killers?"

"That's our current theory, Mrs. O'Hare, yes," Sam said.

She turned ashen, "And so when Robert passed on…Oh." Sam could see she didn't have any idea how to process what to think about this. "Oh…" she said again, letting the sound slowly draw itself out into the silence.

"We don't know why Michael is still assuming Robert's visage," Sam explained, "but it may be his forensic knowledge that Michael is trying to use." He motioned forward and Dean handed her the portfolio, "We think Michael is trying to bring Robert's killer to justice. We think he is investigating the Winchmore Hill Disappearances in your late-husband's stead."

She said nothing, she didn't look up; tears ringed her eyes. She looked through the portfolio, slowly turning page after page. Sam and Dean sat silently nearby, letting her absorb.

"So what do we do now?" she asked, her voice shaky.

"To be honest," Sam said, "we don't know. We've been doing this a long time, a _long_ time, but to be clear, this is the first time we've run into something that doesn't obviously deserve to die. We were hoping to talk to him."

She nodded, tears slowly sliding down her cheeks. "I trust you," she said. She finished her tea and splashed brandy into her cup and drank deeply again.

"Thank you for keeping me informed. Please continue to do so. But I need some privacy now," she said as she handed the portfolio back.

"Of course, Mrs. O'Hare," Sam stood and straightened his coat, "we'll let ourselves out. If you need anything we are staying in Golden Goblet."

"Robe – Michael, I guess, he said something about," she stopped speaking, trying to remember, "Southgate; something about the Woodsman. It's a pub."

The two brothers thanked her and let themselves out of her home and the London night, heading for Southgate.


End file.
